The Loving Husband (7 page)

Fran kept up breathless conversation with Emme as they went, so as not to think, answering questions she’d usually let drift:
Yes, no, cows could sleep standing up, it would be fish fingers for supper, babies learned to walk when they were one.

Where’s the hospital?
stopped her in her tracks. ‘In town. Not far.’ Holding her breath for the next question, the question she would have to give a real answer to:
What’s in that tent? What were you looking at, what was that man picking up?
But Emme went quiet then, and then they were in the playground, and Fran was pushing the wooden gate open, scanning the women milling at the school door, the children perched on the climbing frame.

Beyond the school building the line of the horizon was visible and the stretch of an unkempt field, its grass yellow from wintering. High in the sky over it a speck vibrated against the white sky, a lone sparrowhawk hovering on the lookout. She watched it, tense for when it would dive; she felt Emme lean close against her.

It had been Nathan who had first pointed a bird of prey out to her, and once she knew, they seemed on his radar all the time. She’d seen his head turn in the car to register them sitting on fence poles as they passed, the distinctive curve of the beaked head, the low-folded tail feathers, the perfect poised balance. Emme tugged, reaching to point now as out in the field it swooped, plummeting straight down into the shaggy grass. Fran put an arm across her shoulders because she knew too, Nathan had taught her the names. Birds of prey. Sparrowhawk, red kite, marsh harrier.

Searching the faces, Fran didn’t know if it was her imagination but as the other mothers filed in it seemed to her there were more whispers, more glances than usual. It wasn’t until Karen shoved the gate open ahead of her with a bang, though, and shouted, that Fran knew who she’d been waiting for. ‘Harry! Just wait a bit, Jesus,’ Karen yelled. Her son, a small, scruffy boy with a sharp little red nose, had run in ahead of her and was already talking busily into Emme’s face, interrogating her about some character from a cartoon or computer game.

‘He’s all right,’ said Fran, as Karen arrived behind him. She could see straight away that she knew.

When they’d asked, is there anyone you can call, the thought of Karen had fluttered briefly, a spark of hope. But it had been three in the morning, and they hardly knew each other, not really.

At the end of Emme’s first week at school Fran had lost track of her in the playground and it had been Karen who’d spotted her wandering and brought her back, unasked. ‘Always worst-case scenario, isn’t it?’ she’d said, and Fran could have hugged her. ‘Tell me about it. Under a car or abducted. Funny that.’

She came to a stop in front of Fran now, standing between her and the others, like a guard. Karen was a big woman and slightly dishevelled but she always put on her face, lip gloss, blue eyeliner to go with dark blue eyes, mascara meticulously applied, starry in the grey playground. It was why the other mothers whispered about her, not with her, making a show of herself and not caring either.

Karen was a single mother, Fran thought. She’d heard Harry asking, wheedling for a visit to his dad.
Dad always takes me to Kentucky
. Fried Chicken, she guessed. Not the racetrack. This morning in the cold Karen had her son’s sharp red nose.

‘Are you all right?’ she said quickly, regarding Fran with level kindness, and with that look she felt it bubbling up inside her.

‘No,’ Fran said, keeping it together, just. ‘I…’ She felt herself staring hard, straight ahead so as not to lose it. ‘No. Not really.’

‘It was you found him?’ said Karen in an undertone, and Fran stared.

‘How did you know?’ she whispered. And Karen just turned her head a fraction, towards the others. ‘Do they all know?’

Karen shrugged. ‘Or think they do.’

‘How?’ Fran said, her voice strained.

‘Oh, love,’ said Karen, sorrowful. ‘Human nature, isn’t it? You’re in the sticks, now. Nothing better to do out here than poke about in other people’s misery.’ She pulled her coat tighter around herself, frowning hard at something.

‘She doesn’t,’ said Fran, nodding towards Emme. ‘She doesn’t know, I mean. I haven’t … I haven’t…’ And as her voice cracked Karen was there right next to her, her round warm shoulder pressed against Fran’s.

‘All right,’ she said, firm. ‘It’s all right, darling.’

A bell rang and she could see the tall teacher who held it seeking someone out among them.

Eyes in the back of her head, Karen said, ‘Ignore her,’ and she bent to zip Harry’s fleece. She gave him a little push and he headed for the queues forming at the school door.

Emme hesitated, looking up from one of them to the other.

‘You want me to have her, after school?’ said Karen, putting out a hand to pat Emme’s shoulder, and obediently Emme fixed on her, listening. ‘You fancy that, Emme? Pizza for tea.’ Emme turned to Fran, pleading, wide-eyed and silent.

And Fran found herself nodding, just to see her smile. Watching her run, schoolbag flying, to catch Harry at the door she told herself, It’ll come soon enough.

‘I’ll let them know in the school office if you like,’ said Karen.

‘Really?’ She felt stupidly grateful, not to have to go in there. ‘Thank you.’ Karen flapped a gloved hand. ‘You’ll tell me? If there’s anything, if she’s…’

Karen nodded. ‘Come for her whenever.’

At the gate Fran turned, and Karen was still standing there, watching her, and for just a second she caught a look, sharp and thoughtful, a wondering look. Then Karen was moving off, towards the school door, and in the buggy Ben twisted to look up at her, straining. As Fran set her hand on the gate and the empty road home beckoned, she could feel it, still there somewhere under her ribs, a hard tight knot of fear.

As she knelt beside him in the field Gerard had fished a pen from a breast pocket and flipped the sodden scrap on to it from out of the wet stubble. With his other hand he had pulled a clear plastic bag from his jacket’s side pocket.

She had still not even been sure what it was they were looking at, she had been able to hear her own breath, raw in her throat as she leaned in. ‘What?’ she said.

He had his forearms on his knees and the bag held up between them, a finger and thumb at each corner. ‘God knows,’ he said, guarded, keeping her at bay. ‘It could be just random.’

She couldn’t make it out at first. Something knotted, brownish. Tan-coloured, familiar and not familiar. A colour she never wore: a pair of women’s tights.

The police car was still there when she got back from school, but there was no one inside it. A van was parked next to it and out in the field beyond the barn she could see them taking down the pale nylon tent. She pushed Ben inside, asleep in the buggy. The kitchen was empty.

A horrible feeling sat in her belly, made of the knowledge that she was on her own. That she’d never wake up next to him again, the sight of her cold kitchen, the house that needed work, the children who needed to understand where he’d gone. Disbelief.
How?

The blood on the wall jumped at her: a man in a white boiler suit had come in last night and photographed it, hadn’t he? Did that mean she could clean it off? Looking at it Fran remembered something. She left Ben in the buggy and lifted the receiver, she dialled her mobile number, and listened. It would be on silent because that’s how she kept it but if it was in the room she would hear it vibrate. She heard nothing. She pushed the door into the corridor open a crack and listened. She thought she heard it, that tiny buzz, she strained to narrow it down, hall, sitting room, upstairs … but then the answerphone cut in and the sound was gone.

It was there. She’d find it, then she’d call people. Then.

She set her back against the wall and dialled again, Nathan’s number. She closed her eyes, waiting for his voice, steeling herself. But that wasn’t what came:
The number you have dialled is not available
. She hung up. Try again. The list was there on the wall beside her:
Doctor, Dad
– Nathan’s dad –
Nathan, School, Dentist, Rob Work, Rob.

Was it only last night? Only hours ago but time seemed to have stretched: it felt as though she’d travelled miles in her sleep. How far could he have got, the man in the field? He could have got to the next county, he could have got to Scotland. But he’d waited, and watched. He didn’t want to go anywhere.

She dialled. It rang and rang and rang. She imagined Rob in the lab, stooped over his slides, with his red teenager’s knuckles. She almost hung up then he answered, out of breath. And suddenly she couldn’t speak.

‘Nathan?’ he said. ‘Nathan?’

Their number would be in his phone, under Nathan. Of course. So the police couldn’t have spoken to him yet.

She found her voice. ‘No, Rob. It’s me.’

‘Fran? Sorry, I was … the phone was in some zip compartment in my backpack, I couldn’t get to it. I thought he … I thought you were going to ring off.’

‘Backpack?’ she said, momentarily derailed. ‘Where are you?’

‘Outward bound course,’ he said, shyly, and dimly she remembered something, he’d wanted Nathan to go. ‘In Wales. Well, not so much of a course, just me walking. You can tell Nathan he’s not missing anything. There’s cloud cover down to the ground.’

‘No…’ She couldn’t even start to say it. ‘Nathan … He’s … Nathan’s…’

‘Fran,’ he said, his voice rising, ‘Fran, what is it? What’s wrong?’

Then she could only hear his breathing on the other end of the line, growing ragged, as she told him. She stopped talking, she squeezed her eyes shut, she didn’t want to hear, or see.

‘Nathan’s dead? He’s dead?’ He sounded lost, bewildered. ‘He was supposed to be here. I asked him to come months ago, he said he was too busy.’ His voice rose.

‘The police want to talk to you,’ said Fran, feeling a creeping anxiety, that this was going to make someone angry, but suddenly it seemed important that she be the one to break the news, whatever DS Gerard said. This was Rob: this was his best friend. ‘They’ll try and call. They keep asking. Who he knew. Did anyone … Who would want to do this to him, outside our house, in the middle of the night? Rob?’ She heard only dull silence. ‘But Nathan? Did Nathan have…’ She searched for the word, but it didn’t seem right. ‘Was there anyone … did he have
enemies
? People … back here, was there anyone…’ She heard a kind of gasp, as if he’d sat down abruptly.

‘
No
,’ he said, then, desperate. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know. He said – the last time I saw him – work seemed to be getting him down, that was all.’ Pleading. ‘But that couldn’t … work couldn’t—’ He broke off. ‘He’s dead.’

‘It’s all right,’ Fran told him. ‘No, I shouldn’t … I should have let the police talk to you first, I just didn’t want it to be…’ and she heard her voice break. ‘Oh, Rob. I’m so sorry.’

‘I’m coming back down. This fucking mountain.’ It was the first time she’d heard Rob swear. ‘Why didn’t he come? I’ve got to walk out of here, I’m on my own. I’ll see if I can get a lift off, I’ve got some battery left on the phone but the signal’s not good. Are you all right, Fran? Are they making sure you’re all right? You’re on your own with the kids.’

‘I’m all right,’ said Fran, stupid tears coming to her eyes. ‘They might call you. I’m sorry. The police might call.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Rob. ‘Just tell them – I’m coming back. I’ll be there—’ He broke off. ‘Shit, shit. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

And the line went dead.

Slowly, she hung up. Ben lay sleeping in the buggy, pale and still, and she leaned her head back against the wall.

The thin light was coming through the window over the sink, showing up the dirt. Fran walked towards it, thinking. She dipped a cloth in the washing up bowl and wiped one pane, then the next. Reached for a tea towel to dry them off but on the second one she stopped and leaned closer. There was something, not on the inside. She put the tea towel down and went to the door, outside into the yard.
Where, where.
She looked, searched. There.

A nick in the thick glass. Fran put her finger to it and felt the sides of it. She leaned up closer and saw it quite clearly, tiny and almost perfectly round, as though something small and round had struck the thick glass from outside, and felt triumph,
yes
,
only then as quickly the white flash of terror, like a flare illuminating the scene, the yard, the dark yard.

He’d waited for her to find Nathan but he hadn’t gone, not then. He’d waited until she was inside and then he’d come, softly across the field, right up to the house. As she had stood there under the kitchen striplighting, holding on to the phone with her back to the window he’d been watching her.

Fran was stiff and cold; she rubbed both arms fiercely. All this from a tiny fleck in the window pane, a blemish. She looked around for the pebble he’d have thrown but the yard was littered with them, it was half gravel. She looked across at the men beyond the barn, in the field: they’d been in the yard, too, peering inside the dilapidated shed. Could she have shown them handfuls of dirt and stones, to fingerprint or whatever they did? They’d have thought she was nuts. She turned and went inside.

Ben was stirring in his sheepskin cocoon so she lifted him out quickly and still in her coat she sat to feed him at the kitchen table. She looked back at the door, the mat askew, the floor heavily marked with bootprints, and something began to tick, her wet feet at the door, mud on them as she had slid them into Nathan’s boots. Nathan had been out in the field, not wearing boots, just the shoes he’d gone out to the pub in. Wet mud on the floor last night. She tried to make sense of that, but just the image of Nathan taking off his shoes at the door defeated her, the way he knelt, untied a knot, methodical, fastidious. Fran looked at the table where the two-day-old newspaper lay. She could remember Nathan opening the paper, saying something. A stack of books she’d ordered for herself, one cardboard parcel not even opened yet though it had arrived weeks ago. A plastic carrier bag with something flat and square in it.